Browsed by
Category: hold my vodak and watch this

Hey Napoleon. It’d Be Nice If You Could Pull Me Into Town

Hey Napoleon. It’d Be Nice If You Could Pull Me Into Town


Of course this is Russia, not the Gem State, so people named Napoleon doesn’t do so well in the winter.

The video is titled “Russians preparing for the Olympics.” I began to wonder what the Olympics would look like if Russia got to choose all the events. Lessee, there’s the Chernobyl spent fuel rod long jump, the Siberian outhouse visit relay, and the Crimean hammer and sickle throw. They’d have synchronized St. Vitus dancing. Freestyle polonium speed dating. Greco-Roman subversion. Cross country frayed strap dragging. Molotov badminton. Nordic combined breakdown lane luge.

Hey, wait a minute. That sounds way better than the regular Olympics, and dashcams on all the participants is way, way better than pinkeyed Costas any day.

(Thanks to tovarisch Zherar Van der Leun at American Digest for sending that one along] 

Why? Because Russia, That’s Why

Why? Because Russia, That’s Why

It must be marvelous to live in the wreckage of the Soviet Union. It used to be a buttoned-down icebox of Stalinist rules. Now no one cares what the hell you’re up to. If anyone asks, just say, “Because Russia.”

This little maneuver might seem a tad, well, ill-advised to an outsider. But it’s a country where playing bumper cars with econoboxes is the de facto national sport. “Tonight on Dashcam Derby, Ivor is going to get two wheels up on the guardrail and pass a helicopter that’s flying down the hammer lane for some reason, and a giant truck loaded with Chernobyl salvage lumbering down the breakdown lane on four flat tires, and on the right-hand side, too. He’s drunk of course. He’s awake! Duh. Go Ivor! Oh, dear, that ended badly. Next! Because Russia!”

Sure, pitch yourself off a building after lighting your MC Hammer pants afire and land in a disreputable looking pile of snow. Why not? Because Russia! It’s probably safer than staying on the building, which looks like it was built by pigs expecting a wolf. In Russia they dish out polonium enemas to guys that wouldn’t get a sternly worded letter in America. Why wait for something bad to happen to you? Make something bad happen to you! Just make sure someone’s filming it, and you’re instantly the David O Farkin Selznick of YouTube. Why? Because Russia!

(thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. Because Borderline!)

Like A босс

Like A босс


Oh, sure, you’re Mr. Cool at the gas station. You don’t pull up to the pumps on the wrong side. I bet when you use the squeegee, you get just the right angle and don’t leave that little stripe of grime on the overlaps. You pause after the auto shutoff for a few seconds so the nozzle won’t drip gasoline on your tasseled loafers, too. You wipe your hands with the little blue towelettes they have on the canopy stanchions, I bet. Those are for girls, you know.

And then there’s this guy.

Remember, It’s Now Considered In Poor Taste To Call People Retards

Remember, It’s Now Considered In Poor Taste To Call People Retards


You see, Americans are pretty nice, actually. We’re a polyglot nation, and try to avoid calling each other names any more than is necessary, like when you step on my foot in the subway, you jerkwater doofus. But whatever our faults, we try not to give offense if we can avoid it. We’re not Canadian, but we live next door; how bad can we be?

When I was young, the linguistic powers that be and the euphemism police wanted to stop calling the mentally challenged “idiots”, or “morons”. or “imbeciles.” They thought it was rude. So we did as they asked, because, hey, we’re nice. Honest. They told us to call mentally challenged people “retarded.”

Well, since 2006, they’ve changed their minds again, and don’t want you calling anyone retarded, either. And since the term idiot, moron, and imbecile are now terms reserved for members of Congress, we really do have to come up with a term for, oh, I don’t know, let’s say for example, young fellows that clutch a wire from a battery in one hand while waving their hand over a damp concrete floor until they produce a spark and ignite some form of petroleum they’ve spilled there. Hmmm.

I have it! The Cyrillicly Challenged.